


Waste of Time

by LittleLinor



Category: Persona 4
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1844320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe if he pays with everything he has, he'll keep his attention instead of being left behind again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waste of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the kink meme

Maybe if you have him hit you, you'll finally snap out of it.  
Maybe if you have him hit you, the part of you that's always pining, craving for his approval will finally understand that nothing will ever come out of this, that his hug all those weeks ago was just him being himself and comforting you (because you're not blind, you've seen how he acts around others, you know he's good at guessing exactly what people need and giving it to them; if only you didn't know it wouldn't quite expand to what you crave), maybe it'll finally feel _hurt_ and give up on this mindless adoration, this idea that maybe if you stay close to him, always, if he keeps his shining attention on you, you'll be worth something just by virtue of being something he's been in contact with.

Maybe you shouldn't have, because after it, even as he makes you fight back and you want to laugh and cry at how ridiculous the idea is (you? Hitting someone like _him_?), you find yourself wanting him to do it again, hit you again, bruise you again, as long as it means his hands on your body again, his eyes on you, his _attention_.   
You lie next to him on the grass, and try your hardest not to feel the imprint of his body on yours.

It doesn't take long after that.  
It's forever from your perspective, of course; weeks of seeing him leave school with others, of hearing his name in an older woman's mouth as she browses the toy section with her son, of casual mentions of Kanji coming to his house, his _room_ to give him sewing lessons.   
It's only fair, of course. God knows he's spent forever with you when you were mourning (like you see him doing with Saki-senpai's brother now), given you more attention than you deserved (because you're his partner, his _partner_ , and he relies on you, doesn't he?), and others need his attention as much as you do, but you feel like you're _wilting_ , a cut flower in a water-less vase that hasn't quite rotted enough yet for people to bother to remove.  
And then the world collapses and _he_ 's the one who needs support, the one rushing into danger, the one needing reassurance.  
You follow him as he rushes his way through all of heaven in one day and night, ignoring everyone's worried, almost accusing glares (why aren't you stopping him, Yosuke? But they should know by now that you can't oppose him, ever, not when he might be disapointed--or worse, understand and _leave you behind_ ), stay by his side and heal relentlessly as he hammers Namatame with every element he's got, and when he doesn't even blame you for having been controlled, you know you'll do _anything_ to pay him back for believing in you.  
He goes home to his empty house after getting Nanako to the hospital, and you go with him, letting yourself hug him, letting him kiss you, letting--  
You'd have done it anyway, because he needs someone to comfort _him_ for once, and you owe him so much, your body seems like a small price, but it's no price to pay because every touch of his hands on your skin almost make you feel _alive_.

It happens again, and again, and it's such a strange thing, to feel hands on you and not have to laugh it off (to wash it off later). He's relieved and grateful, and lavishes you with attention, and it almost feels _wrong_ to have someone really focus on you but you can't help it. You're too drunk on the feeling of his eyes on you, and too eager to help him, to comfort him, to pay him back for giving you the time of the day.   
It's for him you're doing this, you tell yourself to shut up the part of you that asks if this is what your body wanted after all, if you'd comfort Kanji in this way too. It's for him you're doing this, and if some days you feel like throwing up and letting your guts, your lungs fall out of your mouth with their contents at what this says about you, it doesn't matter because he calls you "partner."  
He invites you to his house again, and before he can suggest anything else, you kiss him, and hold back tears when you finally get him riled up enough that he pushes you down.

He stops.  
He stops and your heart stops with him, jams right into place as your brain starts pulsing instead with _why_ and _what did I--_ and _I fucked up_. You want to throw yourself up, turn your body inside out in a mess of exposed flesh so you don't have to see the way he looks at you like he's finally figured it out, finally seen you for the broken toy you are; you'd rather be brain dead than have to deal with disgust, with _contempt_.  
You can't be left behind if you don't exist.  
He brushes the side of your face and you start sobbing--that's what it was, wasn't it? That's what betrayed you to him, because you don't need to be a genius to know someone who cries during sex is fucked up, and he's always been good at reading people.  
You beg him not to stop.  
"Yosuke."  
No.  
"Calm down."  
You try to sit up, to kiss him, but your body won't obey and you only reach halfway before falling back into his hand.  
"Yosuke, why are you doing this?"  
You laugh, this time, because that's it, you've lost your last bargaining chip and you have nothing left to give. The silence stretches, and you wonder why he hasn't left yet. Oh right. It's his house. You're the one who should leave.  
You wait, silently, pressed under him still, for him to throw you out (maybe you'll finally understand, then, what having his fists bruise you couldn't get across last month).  
He doesn't.  
"I'm sorry," you tell him, lifeless.  
"For what?"  
"For being a waste of your time."  
He stares, like he's seeing you for the first time, and then shakes his head. Disgust--no... disbelief? You're blinking at the dissonance, but before you can react, he's pressed you down again and slid arms under your back, and you're held down, held, tight and close, like your own arms try to do sometimes. It feels _possessive_ , and you're still trying to process that when he speaks up again.  
"Do you really think that's what I want from you?"  
You don't answer. You can't, because what else _can_ he want, and maybe if you give the wrong answer his arms will leave.  
They tighten around you instead.  
"This isn't a waste."  
You don't fully understand, but you also can't move, because somehow he _wants_ you there, and that's more safety than you've felt in a very long time.  
You let your face fall sideways to rest into his hand.


End file.
